


Yours, Stydia

by AllyKat8



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Good Boyfriend Stiles Stilinski, Love, Sassy Lydia, Sexy Time, Stiles, Stydia, i miss teen wolf, lots of fluff, lots of love though, lydia martin - Freeform, one shots, relationships, these two
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 15:09:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16369967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllyKat8/pseuds/AllyKat8
Summary: Unapologetically Stydia. All of my Stydia one shots in one place. Because I'm a binge reader and therefore love all binge posters.





	1. You're My Person

**Author's Note:**

> If you're reading this I love you more than anything. Please comment. Please send prompts. Please enjoy. 
> 
> \- Ally

Prompt: “Fuck you!” “Not with that attitude.” 

Prompt: If I murder someone, you are the person I’d call to help me drag the body across the floor. You’re my person

 

Lydia always knew that she was going to die like this. She knew it would be agonisingly slow and undoubtedly before her time. She knew it would start with a clenching in her chest that stole her breath away. Admittedly, she'd always assumed it might be a heart attack, or one too many tequila's, but instead here she is, watching Stiles Stilinski wrap his fingers around Malia's hair, and she knows, she's all but dead already.  
He's beautiful, in the worst kind of way. She knows she's beautiful too and beautiful people herd together, right? So why wasn't he twisting his fingers around her hair? She already knows the answer. He isn't Jackson, or Aiden, or...she can't even remember the names of all the others. She knows that she can walk into the cafeteria any time and find another chiselled jaw to admire. He'll be rich, adequately dreamy and after a date and a few drinks she'll probably let him take her home with him.  
In the morning, once she's home and showered, she'll tell herself she wasn't easy, even when she knows it isn't true.  
She's ruined for all that now. She can't find what she's looking for in the cafeteria or on the lacrosse field. Stiles was usually in the library, pouring over any book that might explain the unexplainable.  
So, no, maybe his smile isn't always the straightest. Maybe he's lean and sinewy instead of broad. And maybe he smells like soap and deodorant and something just Stiles. She's tired of gagging on Hugo Boss anyway. And maybe, just maybe, he'll be the first person to make her fall apart before he pulls her back together.  
For now, he's still loving someone who isn't her.  
For the first time, he's completely unaware of her presence. He doesn't know that she's really just a shell, held up by bones locked in place, and her insides are lying in shattered pieces at her feet. The tip of his nose skims over Malia's neck. He whispers something into her hair. Checks the halls are free of teachers and nips at her ear.  
Lydia thinks she might be sick.  
She clamps a hand over her mouth and turns on her heel, Malia's laughter ringing in her ears. She freezes when she hears him call her name. She sends a silent 'thank you' to the universe that he shouts it like an after thought, like he wouldn't have even bothered if he didn't feel like he had to. There are times when he says it like she's water and he's on fire. On other days he might whisper it to her with a hand on her cheek and it's so tender, so intimate that Lydia thinks she might spontaneously combust.  
She doesn't respond as she hears Malia tell him to, 'just leave her,' and instead flees towards her next class, the clack of her heels echoing in her wake.  
-  
She prays that it's Stiles that answers the door. She's not sure she can handle explaining why she's standing on Sheriff Stilinski's front porch at 2am in her pyjamas. She muses that it always seems to rain when a fugue episode strikes. Maybe it was supposed to be ironic, although she couldn't seem to figure out how. Nevertheless, if it wasn't raining she wouldn't feel as self conscious about the transparency of her t-shirt.  
She knocks again and wonders if she should call him instead of waking up the rest of the street but it doesn't matter in the end. As she raises her fist to knock again she sees the lights flick on in the hallway and the jangle of keys tinkles like a balm on her frayed nerves.  
Lydia's not sure what she was expecting him to look like but it wasn't this. He looks younger somehow, less troubled despite the sleepy confusion furrowing his brows. He's ditched the flannel shirt for plaid pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. Lydia almost smiles at the choice. He's still true to himself, even when he's asleep, she thinks. Surprisingly, it's endearing, dependable and even illicit she decides when he reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. She forces herself to raise her eyes from the flash of skin the movement reveals above his waistband.  
“Lydia? Jesus, you must be freezing; get in here,” he says to her amazement and steps aside hurriedly.  
And just like that, she's already bypassed at least four steps of her plan and in all honesty she feels a little dizzy with the speed of it all. She'd expected to at least have to explain herself, but he simply eyes her tiredly and says, “My dad's at the station. You can, er, do you want to change?”  
Lydia looks down at herself and nods slowly.  
Did she want to change? He's talking about her clothes but it's like the question lays her soul bare. She wants to be the Lydia that he sees. She wants to be the fun, smart Lydia that he wanted to dance with so desperately. Being that Lydia meant being a new, shiny Lydia that was selfless, brave, and kind. Although she isn't sure if she's completely mastered those yet.  
She thinks back to the way he smiled when Malia laughed at his joke at lunch. Lydia had seen his cheeks colour when they locked eyes and Malia bit into her apple suggestively. He hadn't even noticed that Lydia developed a sudden case of a headache and excused herself.  
“You're in love with her, aren't you?” Lydia says suddenly as Stiles begins to fidget with the hem of his t-shirt. “Malia,” she clarifies. The name almost gets stuck in her throat.  
His hands still and he looks up at her like she's just announced she has a second head. Lydia wraps her fingers together anxiously, eyes trained on her bare feet. She notices that her nail polish is chipped and there's dirt between her toes from the walk to his house. She wonders if she should tell him it really was a fugue state that bought her to his door or her own madness. She could have turned back when she'd found herself in his garden. She didn't have to knock. Either way she decides perhaps they're passed the point where it matters.  
Stiles lets out a long breath and scratches the back of his head again.  
“Honestly?” His eyes glance up to meet hers. She wishes he would turn away so that she wouldn't drown in the sincerity she finds there.  
“No, lie to me,” she whispers instead and gives him a small smile.  
If he's aware of the way her heart is hammering against her ribs, he doesn't show it.  
“Honestly, I don't know.” He averts his gaze as he says it and Lydia knows he does it out of guilt.  
Guilt felt by anyone else wouldn't be nearly as endearing, but with Stiles, it's a constant reminder that he's the best person she knows. He feels guilty for things he hasn't even done yet, the same way that she feels guilty when he creeps into her dreams at night. If only he knew how guilty she felt for thinking she could tear him away from Malia and yet she was going to anyway. Because underneath the perfect hair and ditsy head tilts she really was just as selfish as everyone thought she was.  
Telling him how she felt had gone beyond hoping he still loved her; it had become a matter of self preservation. The preservation of her own sanity, that is.  
“Why are you here, Lydia?” Stiles says after a while. His eyes are wide with worry and Lydia realises she's been staring at a spot on the wall behind him for almost two minutes.  
Her confession was crawling up her throat like a banshee scream. She can feel it on the tip of her tongue pushing it's way through her teeth until it burst into the air in a rush.  
“If I need someone to talk to, you're the first person I call. If I find a dead body, you're the person I call. When I can't sleep. When my Dad lets me down. When I just miss Allison too much. It's always you. If I murder someone, you are the person I’d call to help me drag the body across the floor. You’re my person, Stiles. You're the one who always figures it out. You're the one who drags me out of bed three times a week like some kind of supernatural metal detector. Except you don't any more, because you're with her. You're not mine any more.” She goes quiet and after a moment, “Maybe you never were,” she says almost to herself.  
The slow slackening of his jaw is the only sign that he's heard her. He seems to struggle for the right words before finally giving up and he lets out a pathetic, “what?”  
Lydia sighs and shakes her head tiredly. Somehow now it's out it seems tedious to even explain any more. Surely he should understand? She was sure it must be evident on her face, in every movement of her body that whispers Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.  
“Why did you stop looking when I started looking?” she whispers and before he can say another word she's already out of the door, her feet squelching in the mud as she darts across the grass. She doesn't stop running until she can no longer hear him shouting her name.  
-  
If she's deluded to think that he still loves her, she doesn't care. The fates can write it on her headstone, whisper it into the air with her ashes, tattoo it all over her body if they want to. Lydia bites her lip habitually as Stiles pulls away, the spider he's plucked from her hair dangling between his fingers. He swats it away as it wriggles and slides down its web in a desperate attempt to escape.  
“There,” he says tenderly and shuffles back to sit beside her. “Spider free again.”  
Lydia sighs and drops her head back against the wooden boards of Stiles' playhouse. They're faded from the sun and beginning to mould from lack of use but the house is still standing and she supposes that's a sign that even simple things can survive the years.  
She's sure she's sat in it before at some birthday party or other when they were children. She's also sure that Stiles would probably tell her exactly what day it was if she asked but she doesn't mention it. They sit in silence for awhile until Stiles taps his foot against hers.  
“Hey, do you remember my eighth birthday...” Lydia smiles.  
She smiles until he drops his hands back onto his knees as if he's exhausted from spinning his tale of Scott and the killer bumble bee. He grins at her one last time before the furrow between his brows returns. She thinks it might even be deeper now. The way it lines his forehead makes her want to reach out and smooth it like a wrinkle in her skirt.  
He falls silent again. His fingers drum nervously against her leg until she edges away and he murmurs, “sorry.”  
“Why are you hiding in here?” Lydia says after Stiles' third heavy sigh.  
He glances at her out of the corner of his eye.  
“How long have you been waiting to ask that?” He finishes with a small chuckle but Lydia thinks it sounds more nervous than resigned.  
“Will that change the answer?” she counters immediately.  
She shifts imperceptibly until his arm is no longer burning a hole in hers. She doesn't know how he does it, this unassuming boy that wants nothing and yet somehow gives her everything, but every time his skin touches hers she's engulfed by fire that burns hotter that her hair.  
Stiles runs a hand over his face and shakes his head.  
“Malia's coming over to get some of her things,” he says sheepishly.  
Lydia nods slowly.  
“And that's a problem because you still love her?” she surmises. She ignores the way her heart squeezes when she says it.  
In the darkness she thinks she's sees him stiffen when her tongue trips slightly over the word 'love.' She's often considered how so much can be simplified into such a small word. Four simple letters. No mathematical equations or hypothesis which is what it felt like to Lydia. Looking at Stiles felt like standing in front of a chalk board full of numbers and letters in her handwriting. She knows she's done all the working out but she still can't find the answer. She has the same feeling holed up in Stiles' bedroom at two in the morning staring at his mystery board and coming up blank. He's usually fallen asleep by then with his head lolling over the back of his chair and his mouth hanging open and again Lydia questions the emotion that makes her want to stroke his hair off of his face instead of roll her eyes.  
Stiles has crawled to the entrance of the play house. He sticks his head out carefully before darting back inside with a whispered, “she's in the kitchen.”  
He settles himself down beside her again, back resting tiredly against the plastic wall.  
“I don't think I'm in love with her. I thought I knew what being in love was like before Malia and now it just all looks like a big mess. I mean, I'm sat out here hiding from her with you and God, Lydia, you were right.” He shifts his body to face her. “You were. I was such a jackass to you.”  
He shakes his head and opens his mouth to speak again but Lydia cuts him off.  
“Maybe,” she says honestly and he flinches slightly, “but it's okay. You know, I realised I'd never been in love when Allison asked me to remember what it was like. She said it was like you couldn't breath until you were with them. That you were watching the clock until you saw them again.” She pauses, watching for any reaction from Stiles but he doesn't move, he just meets her gaze softly and nods. “Honestly, I don't think I've ever felt like that. Sometimes I feel so nervous about seeing you that I feel sick. It literally makes me want to scream.”  
She realises her mistake almost immediately.  
At first Stiles barely moves. He just sits in silence with his eyes locked on her face. His jaw softens silently. Lydia imagines he can probably see the cogs in her head trying to crank backwards, to turn back time and make him smile gently at her again. Instead he's shaking his head and watching her with that same careful expression he always wears when she's done something decidedly un-Lydia-like.  
She wants to tell him everything. She wants him to know how it feels when he brushes her hair out of her eyes without even thinking first. She wants him to know what it's like every time he smiles and it's like a secret, a smile that only she knows. She wants him to know her, more than she even knows herself. Maybe he already does.  
Instead she shrugs, tucks her knees up under her chin and says, “You're my person,” before she crawls out of the playhouse and jogs back across the grass.  
-  
She knows she should apologise. Realistically she knows it wasn't really anyone's fault but somehow it felt like she had turned around first.  
She had been determined when she woke up this morning. She had told herself that she would walk into school and act like nothing had changed between them. Maybe she'd even kiss him casually, like she had meant to tell him that she loved him, even if it was indirectly. Instead, they'd taken one look at each other and turned in opposite directions.  
Now, she's pacing around her bedroom, rubbing her bruised arm and remembering the startled look in Scott's eyes as she'd collided with his locker in her haste to run away.  
It took a moment for her to remember that this was Stiles Stilinski she was thinking about. He's a mess of tangled hair and flailing limbs and horrendous plans that lead nowhere. Or, alternatively, Lydia thinks he's a masterpiece of tousled hair, toned, wiry muscles and ingenious thoughts.  
She huffs and rolls her eyes.  
“Perception,” she says aloud into the mirror. Her eyes flit down to her heart and she scowls as if to say, this is all your fault.  
Eventually she decides that actually, he had definitely turned around first.  
It takes forty five minutes of pacing to realise she's already running late for school. She grabs her bag wearily and calls goodbye to her Mom on the way out of the door.  
“Shit!”  
The doors barely closed behind her before the curse slips between her lips, and Lydia glances back to see it click shut behind her.  
“I'm sorry,” Stiles apologises hurriedly as he steps out onto the driveway in front of her. “I'm sorry,” he says again, holding his hands out in front of him like she's a wild lioness.  
She shoots him a look of disapproval and his arms drop back to his sides.  
“I've been thinking,” he announces cautiously. Then he sighs with defeat. “Look, I don't know much about relationships.”  
Lydia sighs and readjusts her bag on her shoulder.  
“Clearly,” she bites back and presses her lips together when it comes out harsher than she intended.  
She brushes passed him gently when the pleading look in his eyes becomes too much. She can't look back, if she does she'll be ruined. She thrusts her chin up and straightens her shoulders like a barrier against the sound of his breath behind her.  
“I definitely don't know anything about love.”  
Then she has to turn around.  
“Look, I don't know how to fix this. Okay? I thought I did but I don't. You're my best friend, Lydia, except when you're not because you know you'll never be just that to me.” He pauses and looks up at her through his lashes.  
She considers folding her arms and pouting at him angrily. She was going to need anger to get her through the day unless the next words out of his mouth were, 'I love you too,' or, “I just want to be friends.' Either way she wasn't sure if she'd still be standing after he said it.  
Instead, because he was Stiles, he doesn't say anything like that and really, it's better. He's always better than she expects and it's amazing, really, considering she's expecting a lot already.  
He takes a deep breath and seems to regain some semblance of calm. When he eventually speaks again however, he's still wringing his hands together and almost hopping from one foot to the other.  
“All I want, like, in the world, is to just keep talking to you,” he says firmly. “Okay? I want to know how your day was. I want to know where you want eat, and I want to argue with you. I want to hear all your theories, even the ones that are just completely, you know, wrong. And I know it's not that simple. I just think - “ he takes a step towards her hesitantly, “ - I really believe that if you'd just be willing to continue having this conversation with me, then we can figure the rest out.”  
For a moment all Lydia can hear is the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. She blinks before licking her lips nervously.  
“You know, none of my theories are actually wrong,” she let out hoarsely and pushes a strand of strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. It doesn't feel the same when her own fingers graze her cheek as she does it. Stiles' are always much warmer.  
She knows it's not the answer he was hoping for and yet she's still surprised to see him smiling gently as he closes the space between them.  
“Every genius has an off day,” he whispers before pressing his lips gently against hers. 

Kissing him in the boys locker room had been impulsive. They'd barely even moved, Lydia realises suddenly. She'd crushed her lips against his with all the force she could muster and just stayed there until her senses came back to her. She hadn't tasted him, or moulded her lips around his like she was doing now. But somehow that kiss had still been sat in a box at the back of her mind simple labelled, 'The kiss.'  
Now the box was open and that kiss, the one that had felt like the best kiss of her short life was overshadowed by the feeling of Stiles' arms sliding around her waist and pulling her closer. She doesn't even flinch when her bag falls off her shoulder onto the gravel. She doesn't notice when the front door creaks open behind them and Stiles pulls away.  
“You're my person too, Lydia. You always have been.”


	2. Lights On

She's like a mirage, standing in the middle of his bedroom in a dress made of flowers. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and looks around the room sheepishly. 

“I can clean this up later,” she says, grabbing a box of his old school books and sliding them back under the bed. “We were looking for something that might help us get you back and we made a mess, obviously.” 

She seems genuinely worried. Stiles can only smile and shake his head. How can she care about mess when she's here, in his room, in the place that has always been their safe space? This is where they solve all of their mysteries. This is where they study until two in morning before collapsing on the floor, or the bed, or both. In the morning she always borrows his toothbrush and hops around the room pulling on her heels as she tells her mother that yes, she really is fine and she'll be home straight after school. Which he always knows she won't be because they'll be out getting coffee, or chasing after police cars when Stiles insists that 'they need us!” 

Now, she's shifting uncomfortably from one suede booted foot to the other with her hands twisting together in front of her. 

He wants to hold her again, feel the way her lips mould against his but she feels distant now, like her mind is a million miles away. She glances his way quickly before she lets out a quiet sigh and murmurs,

“I'm sorry.” She pulls her lip between her teeth and shakes her head minutely. She takes a quick breath. “You should get some sleep,” she insists on the exhale. “Scott wants to meet in the morning and you're exhausted. Of course you are, why wouldn't you be?” 

He knows that she's rambling because she doesn't know what else to do. He half expects her to run away but instead she doesn't move. She simply lets her hands fall back down heavily at her sides. 

“Lydia,” he says gently but then she's gathering her things. 

He can't let her go, not now that he's only just got her back. She's so close as she brushes passed him and he grabs her hand. He considers apologising for grasping onto her so desperately but really he doesn't care. If she wants him to apologise for needing her then he was wrong to love her in the first place. And he knows he isn't wrong about that. 

“Stay.”

He's expecting her to resist but instead she lets out a shallow breath and smiles. Her bag drops to the floor in a heap. 

It shouldn't be strange to have her here, in his room, standing so close. In the past she had stood so close it felt like they could have climbed into each other like the twins if they wanted. But now there were so many unspoken words and feelings waiting to be explored piled between them like a wall. Just knowing she's staying the night feels intimate and private. It's a secret; a series of events to come that only they know about. 

It's for this reason that he's disappointed when she says, “Do you want to shower first?” 

She rolls her eyes to herself as if to say, 'of course you do, it's your house.' She doesn't say anything else though, just lets it hang in the air instead. 

Stiles blinks a few times to banish the thoughts that creep into his head. Lydia in the shower. Lydia wrapped in a towel. Lydia in his t-shirt and shorts. He wonders whether maybe he's the psychic one. He hopes so. 

“No, no, you er, you go ahead,” he lets out in a rush, waving an arm towards the bathroom. 

She smiles and disappears into the hallway. He mourns her as she leaves. 

Something about his room feels unnatural as he takes in the faded blue walls, the peeling paint on the bookshelf, Lydia's coat draped casually over the back of his chair with his lacrosse jersey. He thinks maybe that's the difference. She's everywhere. As he continues studying the room he notices her shoes by the door, not the ones she's wearing tonight however. Her phone charger is plugged in next to his bedside table and her bobby pins are covering every surface. He blushes when he sits down on his bed and finds her underwear hidden under his pillow. 

That's where she finds him, sat on his bed with her 'Bridget Jones' pants spread out across his knees. 

“Did you sleep here last night?” he asks her casually, holding her underwear out on the end of his finger. 

Her cheeks burn and she snatches them back. Stiles laughs gently. 

“Maybe,” she hedges as she pulls her hair away from her neck and throws it into a haphazard bun on the top of her head. “I wasn't planning on you ever seeing those.”

She wanders around the room, picking up pins as she goes and slotting them into her hair until it's secure. She shivers and Stiles notices the damp cotton of her dress sticking to her back. He opens his mouth to offer her a clean shirt but she sighs and her shoulders drop. She picks up his jersey and holds it close to her chest. 

“I don't ever want to look the way your Dad did when he remembered you. He didn't know if he was ever going to see you again and he knew that remembering you, meant losing your Mom all over again. I don't ever want to feel like that, Stiles.” She turns towards him. She looks like she might cry but she only sniffs and carefully lays the jersey down again. “I don't want to lose you again.” 

This time a single tear drips down her cheek but she doesn't wipe it away. 

“Hey, you won't, okay?” he says hurriedly as he shoots up from the bed. 

And just like that the barriers are down and he's wiping her tears away with the pads of his thumbs. She whimpers slightly as Stiles presses a slow kiss to her forehead before pulling her close. He can feel the tension in her shoulders as he encircles her in his arms. He knows she's trying not to cry. He knows her well enough to know how embarrassing this must be for her. 

Her hair smells like his shampoo and everything about her reminds him of home. He inhales against her skin once more before pulling away and lifting her face until her eyes meet his. 

“If you cry any more, you're going to make me cry,” he chokes half heartedly and her lips curve into a wan smile because he already is slightly. “I'm not going anywhere.” 

He hopes she believes him. He hopes she knows just how desperately he has loved her for so long, how much he still loves her. 

When she pulls away she graces him with a watery smile. She takes a long breath and rolls her eyes.

“God, what's wrong with me?” she laughs incredulously, wiping carefully under her eyes. She wipes the mascara pooled on her fingers away with the hem of her dress and blinks back any tears that might dare to fall. “I look a mess, don't I?” she says bluntly but Stiles knows she doesn't mean it. She looks beautiful when she cries, she knows that, but she never seems to get tired of hearing it. 

“Nah, you look fine,” Stiles teases with a nonchalant wave of his hand as he flops back down onto the bed. 

She bites back a sniffling laugh and falls down beside him heavily. She's still snuffling softly even when her tears have dried on her cheeks. She stretches languidly and Stiles wonders how she can suddenly seem so long, almost feline, as she arches her back and rolls her neck from side to side. 

“Are you tired?” Stiles asks wearily when her eyes fall back on him. 

He rolls onto his back. His muscles ache with the weight of the day and he presses himself deeper into the soft support of his old worn mattress. He knows he should get a new one but this one has nurtured him through the turning points of his existence, and now it was holding onto Lydia too. It makes him sad to think that his lumpy mattress is one of the only constants in his life. 

Beside him Lydia shakes her head. 

“I should be,” she sighs gently. 

Slowly, her fingers inch across the bed towards him. He sees her out of the corner of his eye but he pretends he doesn't and closes his eyes instead. He tries to hide the way his breath shudders past his lips as her fingers burn a hole in the back of his hand. 

She's a steady weight beside him, grounding him into the moment with every breath that tickles his cheek and the skim of her fingers over his arm. A few moments of peaceful silence pass before he feels her drop down onto her back beside him and she lets out a long breath. 

“Why did you say it?” she says suddenly and Stiles' eyes snap open at the urgency in her voice. “In the Jeep, before they took you, why then?” 

Honestly he didn't know how to answer her. Had it been self preservation? Did he just need to say it, to get it out, even if she was going to forget it ever happened? Even if she forgot about him? Somehow he'd known that she wouldn't though, not completely anyway. A part of him that he couldn't ignore had just known it was time to tell her what she should already know. He loved her. It was that simple really and in his own way, he knew that she loved him too. 

She wraps her hand around his and squeezes. 

“I just needed to.” He rolls his head to the side and finds her already watching him carefully. “I needed you to know.” 

She's quiet for a long time then, lying there with her head pillowed on her arm and her breath slipping softly between her lips. 

Stiles gaze follows the curves of her body like a landscape. The rolling hills of her hips dipping into the valley of her waist. She's an endless expanse of skin and strawberry blond hair and he can't stop himself from reaching out and trailing a hesitant finger over the exposed skin of her shoulder. She doesn't move but he looks up in time to see her eyes fall closed. 

He's imagined her here like this a thousand times but somehow it's still strange to see her pull her lip between her teeth as his hand skims over her hip. He's almost positive that she'll jump up soon, that she'll change her mind or disappear into the air and he'll never see her again. Instead she shivers as his fingertips ghost her bare thigh and Stiles watches the goosebumps that ripple across her skin where they connect. He has to follow the line of his knuckles to his elbow, up his arm to his shoulder to convince himself that this hand, the hand eliciting such a reaction from her, really belongs to him. 

“You really need to stop biting your nails,” Lydia comments softly and he jumps slightly, snapping his hand back like he's been burnt. She smiles and opens her eyes again. 

She seems comfortable, content and sleepy almost but her eyes are bright and challenging. 

“Sorry,” he says immediately, but he's not. “I was just -” 

“Making sure I'm real,” she finishes for him and drags a hand over her damp hair. When he nods she looks sad for a moment but then flashes him a winning smile and shifts closer. 

“I'm not going anywhere,” she whispers softly. “I promise.” 

Her nose is a hairsbreadth away from his. Maybe in a month or so, when they're lying together watching The Notebook they'll laugh at how their eyes cross and become one when they're this close. She'll apologise for having Cheeto breath and he'll kick her in the thigh by accident as he leans in. But for now they're perfect and when her lips mould into his a moment later there's only white light in his head, radio silence and the scent of her hair everywhere around them. 

He told her that she didn't have to say it back, but she does, four times at least each time he's inside her and again when he pulls her impossibly closer in the morning and it sounds better falling from her lips than any public declaration he could imagine. 

In the end, she's Lydia Martin. The scars on her body are secrets that only he knows now. The choke in her throat as she climaxes is a music that only he's allowed to hear. And if he's wrong, and he knows he isn't, it's okay, because she's smiling softly in her sleep beside him now and he knows that's a masterpiece only he will ever see.


	3. Daddy Issues

Lydia smoothed her hands gently over the swell of her stomach and gazed longingly at the battered pair of dungarees she had been wearing almost constantly for the past three months. They were now scrunched in a pile on the bed with Lydia's second favourite outfit; her pyjamas. She pulled angrily at the stretchy fabric of the sweater dress she wore and turned back to the mirror, admiring herself with frustration.  
“Be honest, do I look fat in this?” Lydia huffed, twisting from side to side again.  
Stiles set his case file down on his stomach and ran a hand through his hair.  
“Honestly?” he asked. A smile quirked his mouth as Lydia's reflection pursed its lips. “You still look pregnant.”  
Lydia scowled in the mirror and Stiles laughed, picking up the file again and studying it closely. She could still see his eyes wrinkle with amusement over the top of the papers.  
“Perfect,” she sighed sarcastically and grabbed her clutch bag off of the bed beside Stiles' feet. “Why aren't you ready yet?”  
Stiles rolled his eyes and dropped the file next to him on the bed finally.  
“Do I not look ready?” He gestured to the length of his body and Lydia bit her lip.  
“You look ready to remind me why I married you,” Lydia teased before slipping on her boots and running a final hand over her stomach. “I knew we should have just told them earlier. Your Dad knows, my Mom knows, the pack knew before I did. I can't announce that we're having a baby at a baby shower. It's just too embarrassing.” Lydia toyed nervously with the end of her braid. “And why are you even invited anyway? Showers are supposed to be female only.”  
Stiles stretched his neck and jumped up from the bed. Slowly, he walked around the bed to place his hands gently on Lydia's hips and pressed a chaste kiss into her hair. Carefully, he slipped Lydia's clutch out of her hand and threw it on the bed before lifting her arms like a puppeteer and draping them over his shoulders. He leant back to look her in the eye and hooked a long finger under her chin. She lifted her head willingly and pouted slightly when she saw him smiling softly.  
“I love you,” he said sincerely, “and I promise to spend this whole shower thing holding things in front of you so nobody can see that in just five and a half months I am going to be the happiest man on the planet.”  
Stiles captured Lydia's lips reverently before enveloping her in his arms. He stroked over the top of her head tenderly and peppered kisses across her shoulder until she giggled and shoved him away playfully.  
“Come on, we had better go,” said Lydia. She grazed Stiles' cheek with her lips in a soft kiss as she reached around him and retrieved her bag again.  
Two hours later Lydia was practising her best smile in the mirrored walls of the elevator as Stiles drummed his fingers impatiently against the hand rail. Lydia's stomach churned as she clutched his other hand in her own. Since almost vomiting in the elevator on her previous visit to her father's apartment building, the temporary loss of equilibrium found in rising twenty floors at high speed had become one of her least favourite sensations. She'd never know why they called it morning sickness when it lasted all day.  
Lydia swallowed the bile threatening to rise in her throat as the doors opened and they burst out into the brightly lit corridor beyond. Lydia took a grateful breath of air as Stiles rubbed her back gently before wrapping his hand around hers again.  
There were only three sprawling apartments on the top floor and Lydia tried to shake the itch in her throat as they grew nearer to apartment 503.  
Stiles squeezed her hand reassuringly and slid the baby pink gift bag, that she had specially selected because she hated it the most, down his arms slightly so that he could press the bell.  
“Ready?” he asked quietly. Soft bells chimed in the apartment, intermingled with the sound of chattering voices and soft piano music.  
“No,” Lydia conceded as the door swung open and she forced her lips into a dazzling smile and threw her arms out.  
“Clarissa,” she exclaimed as she leaned forwards to gently kiss the cheek of an elegantly pregnant blond. She kicked out with her heel at Stiles' shin when she heard him chuckling at her false enthusiasm behind her. He sagged against the wall slightly.  
Clarissa withdrew herself from Lydia's embrace and regarded her with curiosity.  
Clarissa was her father's mid-life crisis, or so Lydia liked to say. Her hair was only just golden enough to not wash out her grey, blue eyes. She styled it in a soft, sweeping fringe that almost covered the crows feet beginning to form at the corners of her eyes and mouth. They were a result of the mid-morning cigarette breaks Lydia had discovered she takes every time her father starts taking about work or how much money she'd spent. She was also precisely eight years, two hundred and forty seven days younger that Lydia's mother. It was when Lydia's ravings about her stepmother reached this level of specificity that Stiles was forced to strip her out of whatever dress she had worn to Clarissa's latest soiree and make love to her until she'd forgotten about the whole evening.  
“Oh, it's so lovely to see you both,” Clarissa almost wailed, oblivious to the daggers Lydia was glaring into her back as Clarissa leaned across her to place a kiss on both of Stiles' cheeks like she had become French overnight. As she leant back, Clarissa's eyes flickered over Lydia. “And you look just charming as usual, darling.”  
She was lying. Lydia could see it in the way that she smiled tightly after she'd said it as if to say, do you believe me?  
“As do you,” Lydia responded politely as Stiles' fingers brushed lightly over her lower back and pushed her over the threshold.   
“Where do you want me to put this?” He held up the bag when Lydia pressed her lips together and Clarissa's eyes lit up like a child at the fair.   
She turned around and waved for them to follow as she said, “Just this way. Everyone is so excited to see you both. Most of them haven't met Stiles yet, did you know that, Lydia? You can show him off to all of my friends.”  
Lydia rolled her eyes and watched Clarissa's ever growing buttocks disappear into the sitting room.  
“Bitch,” Lydia muttered, following Clarissa's perfume exhaustedly down the hallway. Stiles let out a long breath and pressed a lingering kiss to Lydia's cheek and then another into her hair.   
“Come on, let's get this party started.” 

-

Stiles collapsed back against the fridge door in the relative quiet of his father-in-law's kitchen and took a long gulp of his beer. Beside him, Lydia frowned as a young man dressed in black finished pouring a fourth bottle of champagne into glasses and carried a tray of tall decadent flutes into the sitting room.  
“Do you ever wonder if you're actually living in the real world?” Lydia mused quietly before sipping on her water. “Why does it feel like we're the only people here that seem to think throwing a baby shower, that's actually really just another cocktail party, is so not normal?”  
Stiles snorted into the neck of his beer and shook his head.  
“Nothing about being with you is ever normal, Lydia.”  
Lydia scowled and they swayed together as she swatted at the bottle in his hands. Stiles swerved his hand away from her and pressed her gently back against fridge.  
Lydia tipped her head back against the door and closed her eyes.  
“I would do anything for one of those right now,” she whined, eyeing the beer.  
Stiles smiled sympathetically and took a final swig before dropping the beer into a bucket of similarly empty bottles.  
When they were eighteen, Stiles might have been surprised by Lydia expressing any interest in a drink that didn't come with some kind of cherry. Back then it had felt like she was constantly surprising him, and she still did in some ways. Mostly, however, she had flourished into a new Lydia. He often thought that maybe this was just the Lydia he had always seen through the haze of lacrosse players and ditsy head tilts. Stiles couldn't even remember the last time she had said anything he thought fell short of absolute genius.  
Now she was Lydia in dungarees swiping paint off of her cheek in the living room of their new house. She was Lydia pulling him into the back seat of his Jeep under the stars buried deep in the heart of the woods like it was her favourite place in the world. She was Lydia who wouldn't take of her wedding ring for anything. She was Lydia with her head hung over the toilet. Lydia dancing around the bedroom waving a pregnancy test in her hand like a trophy.  
And he was Stiles, as in love with her as ever.  
“That would certainly help to maintain your cover,” he pointed out, “but maybe wouldn't be such a hit with the midwife.”  
He stepped towards her and traced a hand lovingly over her stomach. Lydia licked her lips sheepishly and watched as he smoothed her dress down until a small bump stretched the fabric against his palms.  
“Someone's going to come looking for us,” Lydia surmised reluctantly. Stiles pouted gently as she reached around him and poured herself another glass of ice water. “I haven't even seen my Dad yet and we're already hiding in the kitchen.”   
Stiles tilted his head and pushed himself away from the counter top.   
“Perhaps that means we're just excellent judges of character,” he suggested in a voice so low that Lydia felt her cheeks flush. She was sure her face probably coordinated well with her hair as he dropped a soft kiss into the curve of her neck and ran his fingertips lightly down her spine. Even through the chunky knit of her sweater dress she could feel the heat of his touch threatening to collapse her knees.   
“None of that,” she scolded, rounding on him and jabbing a finger into his chest. She wanted to sound seriously but honestly her heart just wasn't in it. “That is exactly how we got into this mess.” She punctuated her words by pointedly lowering her gaze to her stomach before flicking them back up to meet his eyes. Those ridiculous, cocky, beautiful whiskey eyes.   
He replied with only a smug half smile that he usually followed up with a, 'I did that', or his classic, 'I knocked up Lydia Martin' dance.   
Either way she never knew if it made her want to kiss him or punch him in his self satisfied face.   
\- 

Lydia smiled tightly for what felt like the millionth time as Clarissa's mother finally relinquished her hand and clinked her stillettoed nails against her glass of Pimm's. Outwardly Lydia was confident and bubbly as always but Stiles could tell by the way she fiddled unconsciously with the her engagement ring that her skin was crawling.   
“Well at least you're doing it the right way,” Clarissa's mother declared, pursing her lips as she took a sip of her drink. She had lipstick on her teeth in a dark plum colour that Lydia noted she also wore on her nails and wondered why anyone would ever choose that colour twice. “So many young things today doing it all backwards. No wonder so many marriages end in divorce. If you can't handle a baby, you certainly can't handle a marriage.”   
“Do you have any other grandchildren, Mrs Clayton?” Stiles interjected quickly when he saw Lydia eyeing his Old Fashioned longingly.   
“Oh, please, call me Penny,” she gushed as her fingers grasped onto Stiles' forearm. He winced as her talons dug into his skin through his shirt.   
Lydia thought she might gag at the way Penny's eyes raked over Stiles' face like a vulture.   
“Oh, look, the buffet is out. If you'll excuse us, ” Lydia chirped and drained the last of her grape presse. She had befriended a particularly friendly waiter to just keep them coming in a champagne flute with a raspberry once Clarissa's hawk eyed guests had noted she was only drinking water. After three rounds of insisting she was on a three week detox, “Water only,” she had given up.   
She slipped her fingers hurriedly through Stiles' before yanking him quickly in the direction of the buffet table. Once they were out of ear shot he laughed and shook his head.   
She was a marvel, his wife. Her carefully composed smiles, the way she always seemed to know just what to say. Just biting enough to get her point across but sweet enough to make the receiver of her jibes question whether they had heard her correctly. He had asked her once what her secret was and she had confided in him that you could say anything you wanted as long as you smile and nod as you say it. Apparently the following confusion allowed a few moments to make your excuses and escape. At the time he had praised her for the genius of it all, but she had only shrugged and replied matter of factly, “It's basic psychology, really. To communicate we rely on three main parts of conversation. What's being said, how it's being said and the body language of the person saying it. Mix those up and it confuses your brain.”   
“What are you laughing at?” Lydia pulled him from his thoughts with a prod to the stomach.   
She frowned as he shook his head again and placed a gently kiss between her brows.   
“Now, now, Lydia. Don't sulk; you'll get frown lines,” he murmured against her skin. Lydia didn't want to laugh, she didn't want to give him the satisfaction, but the way he lightened his voice and sounded suspiciously like her mother made the corners of her cherry lips quirk.   
“Just shush and protect me. I'm starving,” she huffed and dragged him in the direction of the desserts.   
\- 

As it turned out, Lydia father wasn't even at the party. He arrived shortly after the remnants of the food had been cleared away with a briefcase in hand, still dressed in his work attire.   
Lydia sighed tiredly in the seconds before he caught sight of her and then opened her arms wide and exclaimed, “Daddy, you made it!”   
Stiles smiled warmly as Clarissa stood patiently aside as Mr Martin returned his daughters embrace with one arm and kissed her hastily on the cheek.   
“Of course, darling,” he said, dropping his briefcase into the hands of a passing waitress and instructing her to put it in his study. “I couldn't miss an evening with my three favourite girls.” He pulled Clarissa under his arm and placed a hand over her bulging stomach affectionately.   
Then, as if noticing he was there for the first time, he turned to Stiles and appraised him quickly.   
“And of course, Stiles,” Mr Martin greeted him with a firm handshake and a clap on the shoulder. Lydia winced slightly as she watched Stiles' wrist tense as her fathers iron grip threatened to crush his slender fingers.   
He didn't back down though and Lydia smiled adoringly as he gripped her father's arm jovially and nodded a confident, “Mr Martin,” in return.   
They stood in awkward silence for a moment before Lydia's father clapped his hands together, making poor Clarissa jump and turned his attention to Lydia.   
“Well, can you believe it? I'll be a father by Tuesday,” he announced enthusiastically.   
Stiles almost pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation as he felt Lydia stiffen beside him. She seemed to be struggling with herself, no doubt a war was taking place in her head. Before she could speak Stiles jumped in with a congratulatory smile towards Clarissa and a pointed glare for Mr Martin.   
“Er, Tuesday?” he asked casually, as though he was asking if it was likely to rain that weekend.   
“Oh, we're having a caesarean birth,” Clarissa interjected, oblivious to Lydia's discomfort and the way she had gently placed her fourth faux champagne down on the nearest table in preparation to bolt.   
“Well that's... organised,” Stiles joked in an attempt to ease some of the tension.   
Lydia's father smiled and nodded conversationally before he hammered the final nail in the coffin.   
“Yes, well, I've got a big business trip on the thirteenth so we thought-”   
“Excuse me?” Lydia choked as Stiles grimaced.   
He reached out for her hand but she tucked it away. Under any other circumstances Stiles might have thought that she was adorable, standing there in her grey sweater dress, delicate pearls draped around her neck and her hands curled into petite fist at her sides. He could see, however, that the evening had worn away all of her courteous exterior and all he could do was prepare himself for the inevitable explosion that was to follow.   
Lydia took a step back and laughed incredulously.   
“Oh my god, you're actually serious, aren't you? Well here's a newsflash from Parenting 101, you can't become a father on Tuesday because you already are one. And not that you'll probably care to know, but you'll be a grandfather by Christmas.” She shook her head as if it might clear some of the rage flooding through her veins. She allowed him a moment to process her words before she turned rigidly to Stiles and ground out, “Stiles, get your coat. We're leaving.”   
She didn't spare them another glance as she pushed her way through the crowd of swaying middle aged women towards the door.   
Stiles knew she was crying. He could see it in the tense lock of her shoulders and feel it in the gentle tug of their tether being pulled taught. When she needed him like this it felt like an iron rod between their two bodies with no length, no give. It pulled him into her until they were both lost in each others touch.   
Stiles briefly contemplated apologising on Lydia's behalf but after a split second of consideration he decided they just didn't deserve it. He didn't lie awake at night listening to Lydia sob about the most recent event her father had missed or the dinner he had stood her up on, to simple turn around and apologise.   
With a curt nod, he turned on his heel and trailed after his wife.   
He found her wrestling their coats away from a stricken maid and he didn't say a word as she threw his jacket at him. He knew she didn't want to talk now. She just wanted to escape.   
And if Stiles had vowed to dedicate his life to anything, it was saving Lydia Martin. 

\- 

“Where are we going?” Lydia asked suspiciously as Stiles missed the second possible right turn that could have taken them home.   
He shot her a quick wink and a crooked smile.   
“You'll see,” he assured her cryptically.   
He kept his hand on the gear shift but stretched his little finger out to stroke lightly over the back of her hand were it lay beside the console.   
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked gently when she turned her head away from him.   
“No,” she replied immediately.   
He tried his luck. “Do you want to go home and fuck?”   
He could see her lips roll together in the window as she continued to watch the houses fade away into trees. He turned back to the road as he made a left onto the preserve.   
“No,” she said again, although this time she didn't sound so sure.   
When it came to her father, Lydia usually just needed to get out of her head and at the age of eighteen, Stiles had been delighted to discover that unlocking Lydia's mind usually involved being naked.   
He licked his lips as he concentrated on manoeuvring the Jeep up the track to the cliff edge.   
Lydia surveyed their surroundings and nodded her approval.   
“Is this the part where you tell me you're just not ready to be a father and bury me alive in the woods?” Lydia asked after a moment of watching the sun sink lower in the sky. She pulled down her visor to shield her eyes from the oranges rays.   
Stiles laughed but it was quieter than she expected. She noticed he'd knotted his fingers together in his lap.   
“Well, I wasn't planning on burying you alive but..” he trailed off and let out a long breath. “What if I'm not ready?”   
To anyone else it might have sounded like he was reconsidering their decision to become parents. Lydia, however, knew every line of Stiles' face, every furrow of his brow and the way his voice became small when he was afraid of disappointing her. Not that he ever had disappointed her in their three years of marriage. What he really meant was, 'what if I'm not a good father?'   
Lydia unfastened her seatbelt and pulled her legs up onto the seat so that she could turn to face him. She thumbed his wedding ring lovingly before wrapping her small hand around his.   
“I don't know if I'm ready either,” she admitted, “but I know there's nobody else in the world that I'd rather be doing this with.” She gives him a small smile. “And for what it's worth, I think you're going to be amazing.” 

\- 

“I've told you at least twenty times that I'm not having sex in this Jeep,” Lydia gasped as Stiles' fingers grazed over her lower back, dipping teasingly into the waistband of her tights.   
Stiles pulled his lips away from her neck and scanned his eyes over the length of her body. Her shoes were kicked underneath the front seat and her hair had come lose and hung in kinks around her face. He wiped a thumb over her chin where her lipstick had smudged and trailed his fingertips down her neck. She sighed gently and repositioned herself on his lap. He could feel her everywhere, her body pressed flush against his, and as usual he wondered how he'd ever managed to win her over.   
“You're really committed to that?” he taunted her.   
The sun had set hours ago and it was dark in the Jeep aside from the torch Stiles had dug out of the glovebox. The beam of light made shadows dance across their faces and in the darkness Stiles almost missed the way Lydia's lips curved ever so slightly. It didn't matter if they couldn't see each other. They knew each others bodies like the back of their hands.   
“Yes, I am,” she said firmly as Stiles rolled his hips playfully against her. “Maybe I'm not.”   
Stiles pressed a quick kiss to her cheek before he brushed his lips against her ear and murmured,   
“Now, stop complaining and help me live out my high school fantasies.”   
Lydia rolled her eyes.   
“You wish.”


	4. Transcending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not technically a one shot. More an outtake from my longer fic, Transcendence.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,  
You make me happy when skies are grey.   
You'll never know dear, how much I love you.  
Please don't take my sunshine away. 

 

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. 

Lydia hummed gently to herself as she scanned gingerly over the sticky menu in her hands. 

“If you order a salad I might have to reconsider my ten year plan,” Stiles informed her matter-of-factly and slid his own menu to one side. 

Lydia dropped hers on top of his and leant back against the faded plastic of the booth they had sequestered themselves into at Lydia's request. She may have walked around the woods naked for three days at one point but she still had enough dignity left to not allow herself to be seen in a diner of all places. 

She shot him a sardonic smile and raised an eyebrow. 

“I'm less likely to get food poisoning from a salad,” Lydia shot back, eyeing the open kitchen and peeling wallpaper. 

Stiles slid his milkshake across the table. At first, she ignored it, pointedly allowing her eyes to trail over his shoulders, taking him in, reminding herself that he was really there. After a moment she sighed and dipped a finger into the frothy whipped cream beginning to collapse into the milkshake and rolled her lips together before licking her finger clean. 

Stiles swallowed thickly as she slid the milkshake back towards him. 

“So, you're giving Scott the Jeep?” Lydia asked conversationally as she drummed her fingers gently against the table top. 

Stiles took a long sip of his strawberry shake before pushing it aside and knitting his fingers together on the table. 

“Yeah, Scott said his dorm is like a twenty minute drive away from the campus where he's doing his practical study,” he paused to consider, “or was it his lecture hall? I don't know, anyway he'll need it more than me.” 

Lydia smiled and took a sip of her water. “Well at least I won't have to worry about Roscoe making it all the way to DC,” she quipped. 

Stiles leant back in his seat, aghast. 

“Roscoe is perfectly safe, if not fully serviced. That Jeep's ferried you around often enough. It's been like Driving Miss Daisy for the last two years.” 

Lydia pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and smiled coyly. 

“I think what we should take from that is that I've allowed you to drive me around for the last two years, I'd say that's progress,” teased Lydia. 

She hoped he wouldn't notice the way that she stretched casually, allowing her arm to fall nonchalantly across the table, hand open. All he needed to do was reach across and touch her and she would know it wasn't all in her head. 

Stiles wet his lips hesitantly and slowly ran his fingertip over her palm. Lydia felt fire licking at her neck and dipped her head so that he wouldn't see her flush. 

“I thought you kissing me in the boys locker room was progress,” Stiles said gently, leaning over the table slightly. “Twice,” he added cheekily when he saw her smirk to herself. 

Lydia rolled her lips together nervously and her eyes flickered up to meet his. 

“I thought twice was a coincidence,” she challenged quietly before pulling away and resting back into her seat. “We'd have to do it at least once more to make a pattern.” 

Before Stiles could reply they were interrupted by a slim blonde waitress with a flip pad and a bored expression. As Lydia ordered a cheeseburger with a winning smile and a wink at Stiles she could have sworn she heard him whisper something about “I'll show you a pattern,” and “this woman is going to kill me.” 

 

You make me happy when skies are grey.

Stiles stretched wearily over to his bedside table and switched on the small fan Lydia had installed on his first day. 

“It's the first day of summer, Stiles. I don't want you to over heat,” she had stated matter of factly whilst simultaneous laying a blanket over the end of his bed. She'd smoothed it down with a smile and shrugged. “I don't want you to get cold either.”

He sighed quietly as waves of cool air wafted over his neck, soothing the sweat that stuck his t-shirt to his chest. Beside him, Lydia began to stir. 

Stiles ran a hand over his face and twisted around to see her already beginning to sit up sleepily. 

“Hey, go back to sleep,” Stiles whispered as she placed a hand on his shoulder. 

Lydia ran her hand soothingly over his shoulder and rubbed her eyes tiredly. 

“What's wrong?” she asked softly, dipping her head to rest her forehead against his arm and placing a soft kiss over the sleeve of his shirt. 

“Nothing, just a bad dream.” Stiles smiled and nudged at her hair with his nose. She smelled like strawberry's and cinnamon and something else that he could just never place. Something distinctly Lydia. 

“Do you want to tell me about it?” she said as she raised her head and rested her chin on Stiles' shoulder. 

She was looking at him in the same way she always did. She seemed slightly confused, incredibly thoughtful and just the smallest amount besotted. 

Lydia pressed her lips together shyly as Stiles pressed his against her forehead. 

“You know,” he said suddenly, “I had a dream like this once. Well, it was kind of a dream. When the er,” he paused and sucked in a deep, calming breath, “when the Nogitsune was trying to...whatever. I had this hallucination where we woke up in bed just like this and it was only when I realised that you weren't supposed to be there that I knew it wasn't real.” Stiles wet his lips nervously. “Sometimes it still feels like that.” 

His last words made Lydia's heart ache and she settled herself back down against his pillows, dragging him down with her. She reached across him and switched the fan off. She waited for the whirring to fade before resting her head down on Stiles' shoulder. 

“There is nowhere else that I'm supposed to be,” she murmured into the crook of his neck.

 

You'll never know dear, how much I love you.

“So, do you want to talk about it or...” Stiles trailed off as Lydia pursed her lips and stared resolutely out of the bedroom window. She was sat with her legs curled up to her chest, a blanket wrapped snugly around her shoulders in the cramped bay window of Stiles' dorm room. Summer rain spattered gently against the window and Lydia shivered despite the small fan heater Stiles had propped up on the desk for her. 

He handed her another towel wordlessly and she squeezed moodily at her hair. It hung in dripping tendrils around her face from the rain and Stiles wondered whether he should maybe offer to dry it for her. He decided against it and sank down onto the small bed he and Lydia had been sharing for the past few days since she had driven him down to DC. 

“Lydia, come on, will you just talk to me,” Stiles moaned from the bed as he leant forward on his knees. 

Lydia rolled her eyes and threw her towel over to Stiles' desk chair. It landed with a thud on the floor around two feet off target. She huffed and folded her arms around herself. 

“I just don't know why you thought that that would be okay,” Lydia thought aloud. She swung her legs off of the windowsill and turned around to face him. Stiles expected to find cold steel in her eyes but in reality he thought she looked cautious and guarded like she might run away if he got too close. 

“We were soaked, Lydia, I didn't think it would be a big deal. I thought...” he trailed off and ran a hand roughly through his hair. “I don't know. I thought we were like together now.” 

Lydia shot him a look of surprise, like the idea that maybe they weren't hadn't even crossed her mind. 

“We are. I just wasn't aware that meant we were taking our clothes off now. Did you think about how that might make me feel?” Lydia licked her lips anxiously as Stiles' eyes widened incredulously. The truth was she didn't know how she felt. She loved him, there was no question there but did she want him the way that he wanted her? “I'm just saying maybe if you'd asked first it wouldn't have felt like you were expecting something.” 

Stiles chuckled sarcastically and shook his head. She was delusional, he thought, beautiful and completely delusional. 

“Expecting something? Why would I be expecting anything from you, Lydia? It's not like you've exactly shown an interest in... anything.” He stood up and began to pace back and forth in front of her. She tracked his movements with steady eyes, watched the way his muscles rippled beneath his t-shirt. He actually was beautiful, in the most unconventional way and yes, maybe she had missed it at first. “I mean, would you have asked me before you took your clothes off? I wasn't naked, Lydia, but you,” he waved a hand helplessly, “you could strip down to nothing and you wouldn't have to say a word because you know that's exactly what I want. Well, I don't know what you want, Lydia.” 

Stiles stopped pacing when Lydia sniffed and swallowed thickly. He was right. She had been parading herself around like some kind of prize that he had won at the fair. In the meantime, he had been doubting her, maybe not that that she loved him, but that she wanted him. She was used to feeling want between her legs, not in her gut, or in the way a shiver rippled down her spine when he whispered her name. 

“Stiles, I-” she began but he cut her off with a sigh and grabbed his jacket from the bed. 

“Look, I'm starving, I'm going to go get something to eat. Maybe, we both just need time to think because needing you just isn't enough any more. I need you to need me too.” 

Lydia had barely opened her mouth to protest before she was watching the door slam shut behind him. 

 

Please don't take my sunshine away. 

Lydia was going to be sick. She could feel it burning her lungs, bile rising like a flood up her throat and spilling into her mouth with a taste so bitter that she just couldn't swallow it down any more. 

When she opened her mouth however, nothing came, only a choke and then the light. 

Somewhere in the back of her mind she could see herself sitting cross legged on the floor in her grandmothers living room, eyes glued to the television. 

“Oh, look, Lydia, you look just like her,” her grandmother had said affectionately as she placed two bubbling glasses of lemonade down on the table beside her. “But your twice as beautiful, of course,” she had corrected herself as Ursula reached out into the golden light that crept up Ariel's throat and stole her voice away as she sang. Lydia had shook her head and said that Ariel was the most beautiful Princess she had seen and that one day she would grow up to be a mermaid too. 

It was this long forgotten Lydia that now idly thought she probably looked more like a princess from a Grimm's Brothers fairytale. 

When the scream she had been holding unwittingly for months finally came she was a screaming banshee not a beautiful mermaid. Her hair was aflame, whipping dangerously around her as her voice ricocheted off of anything and everything around her. Stiles face, his hair, his chest caked in blood, were the only things not consumed in a light so bright Lydia felt like she was being engulfed by the sun. 

Her throat was raw and scratchy as cry after scream after cry forced itself passed her lips into the air like Ariel herself. 

There was no evil sea queen to come and steal away her misery however, only heat and heartbreak and a pounding in her head that felt like it might tear her apart. And all the while she clung to Stiles' t-shirt for dear life because it felt like she would shatter if she didn't. 

When the scream eventually died on Lydia's lips she could no longer feel the ground beneath her, or hear anything but her own lungs struggling for breath and the sound of her heart hammering in her ears. It was just her, and Stiles, floating on a cloud of light and air. 

They were transcendent. Luminous and beautiful and for a moment Stiles was there, alive. There was no pain, no pleasure, no understanding. There was only light and as she watched Stiles' eyes flutter open and he sucked in a surprised breath beneath her, Lydia delighted in being completely and utterly... nothing.


End file.
